


Reflections

by gemjam



Series: A Few Of  My Favourite Things [4]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: D/s, Established Relationship, Kinktober 2018, M/M, Mirror Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-04
Updated: 2018-10-04
Packaged: 2019-07-25 04:42:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16190297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gemjam/pseuds/gemjam
Summary: Peter can tell the mirror is Chris’ pride and joy before he even gets it home.





	Reflections

**Author's Note:**

> For the Kinktober prompt _mirror sex._

Peter can tell the mirror is Chris’ pride and joy before he even gets it home. He talks about it for weeks, drawing out the designs, finding the perfect wood, staying late to work on the intricate cut out details. Peter can see the pride in his posture when he walks in with it one day after work, propping it up at the side of the fireplace.

“Do you like my mirror?” he asks, stepping back to appraise it.

Peter abandons the manuscript he’s reading, coming to stand beside him. “I love it. You did a great job.”

“Mmm,” Chris says cryptically. “Take off your clothes.”

He doesn’t even look at Peter when he makes the request, not even so much as a cursory glance before he leaves the room. It makes Peter hot in his belly, pulling his shirt over his head to the sound of Chris climbing the stairs. He strips off his pants, his underwear, his socks, deciding to kneel while he waits. It makes him feel calm and steady and connected. When Chris returns he places a bottle of lube down on the table but nothing else.

“I want you on all fours in front of the mirror, facing it,” he tells Peter, shrugging off his work shirt.

Peter loves to watch Chris undress, especially when it’s as straightforward as this, making it all the more stripped away and intimate. He does as he’s told though, moving over to the mirror, grateful his knees will still be on the thick rug rather than the hardwood floor. Rug burns are easier to deal with than pain throughout and bruises after. They’ll probably mean cuddles and pets for the rest of the evening too. Peter sighs, hanging his head between his shoulders and waiting.

Chris leaves him longer than is necessary, Peter knows he must be naked already, but Chris is a master at letting an idea settle into Peter’s head without saying a word. He knows just how long to leave him so that the tone of his instructions sink in and Peter is pliant and willing. It takes moments, in reality, he accepted it before Chris was even out of the room, but the longer the wait, the better it gets, until Peter forgets to want and just gets taken along by the current.

“Head up, Cub,” Chris says, kneeling down behind him, a hand sliding from the base of Peter’s spine, up to his neck.

Peter whines, lifting his head, faced with himself in such a submissive pose, and even though Chris is on his knees too, he’s knelt up tall, everything about him demanding respect and adoration. Peter has plenty of both.

“I want you to watch yourself,” Chris instructs. “I want you to watch what I do to you. I want you to watch me take you apart.”

Peter takes a breath, meeting his own eyes in the mirror, the blue practically blown away by his pupils already. “Okay,” he says softly.

“Good boy,” Chris says, hand trailing back down, fingertips dipping between his cheeks, tickling his hole. Peter shivers, seeing it go through his entire body. “Don’t look away, darling,” Chris says. “I want you to watch.”

Peter nods his head. He’s good at following instructions, even when he can’t form words.

Chris presses a slick finger against his hole, and Peter’s body wants to give, to bow down, to offer himself up, but he forces himself to stay still. He watches as his lips part with heavier breaths, his cheeks flushing as Chris works his first finger inside him. He likes those little subtleties, like the fact that Chris can have control of his physical reactions like that, things he can’t even control himself.

As Chris slowly fucks his fingers into him, building and stretching and filling him up, Peter watches the sheen of sweat that starts at his forehead but slowly, drop by drop, seems to coat him completely. He watches his shoulders start to slump and his arms straining under his weight and his knees edging further apart, to steady himself but also to greedily try and get more. He watches his lips redden as he repeatedly licks then, watches his hair start to dampen and his eyes go liquid. He feels like he shouldn’t be able to see that, they’re glassy and vacant and somewhere else, but they’re also right there in front of him. It’s like an out of body experience.

Chris pulls his fingers out and Peter watches himself moan, watches his mouth move in silent pleas. They used to be real words, back before they agreed that he wasn’t allowed to ask. Peter enjoys having all the responsibility taken away from him. Now he doesn’t even have a coherent thought in his head, doesn’t articulate his want even to himself. It’s so easy. Chris owns every part of him. Peter couldn’t be more content.

Chris moves closer, hands on Peter’s hips as he rubs the head of the cock against his hole. Peter’s eyes flick up to his reflection, towering over Peter, controlling him like a puppet. It makes him moan and he feels as jolt of pure arousal go through him as their eyes meet through the glass.

“Don’t look at me,” Chris says, his voice so soft and yet so commanding. He knows what Peter needs now. He needs clarity. He needs gentleness. He needs to be taken care of. “Watch yourself,” Chris says. “Watch yourself fall apart for me.”

Peter nods, eyes scanning down Chris’ chest in the reflection before he comes to his own body again, faced with himself. This would have been torture once, but he’s comfortable with it now. Chris has made him love himself more than he would have ever thought possible, worshipping his body until Peter believed every aching devoted word. He made him proud to be shown off. This feels like the opposite of that, a tiny, intimate moment that’s just for them, but Peter feels equally exposed, maybe even more so. He faces it though. He doesn’t shy away. That would be disrespectful to Chris.

As Chris lines up his cock, Peter is aware of the fact that he holds his breath, waiting in anticipation. Chris eases his way in, Peter opened up enough by the torturously slow fingering that he can go deep straight away, filling Peter up so deeply and perfectly and right. Then he just stays there, rocking his hips, each movement feeling like he’s getting a fraction deeper until Peter feels like he’s going to hit his skull.

The sensation is overwhelming and Peter loses himself, his head falling down between his shoulders, his arms ready to buckle beneath him. He wants to drop down to his elbows. He wants to just be helpless to Chris’ fucking. Chris stills inside him, his hand in Peter’s hair, slowly but firmly dragging his head back up.

“No, no, no,” Chris chides. “I’m not done with you, Cub. You need to keep looking.”

Peter whines but he doesn’t complain. He finds his eyes in the reflection again and a shudder goes through him. He barely recognises himself, so taken apart, but it looks like a thing of beauty because it belongs to Chris. He’s Chris’ work of art, just like this mirror.

Chris starts to fuck him, deep and thorough, Peter’s body rocking with every thrust, undulating towards and away from his reflection. It’s mesmerising and he loves how utterly helpless he looks, Chris’ big hands holding his hips firm, stopping him from folding into a useless pile on the rug. He looks small and vulnerable. It frees something up inside him.

Tears fills his eyes, everything blurring, but he never looks away. Chris rubs over his hip with a thumb, a reassuring gesture, but he doesn’t let up on the solid fuck he’s giving him. Peter would never forgive him if he did. He stares into the mirror, seeing lights and shapes and moments of clarity as the tears fall. Each time he comes into focus, it takes him apart a little bit more. He’s so inescapably in this moment and it feels like being put in his place and put on a pedestal all at once.

Chris’ hand slides from his hip, grasping his cock firmly, almost painfully, Peter crying out at the too sharp sensation. Chris strokes him, hitting every spot while he fucks perfectly into him, and Peter knows it’s a lost cause already. He never tries to come or tries not to anymore. Chris takes care of that. All he has to do is feel.

“You’re going to watch yourself come,” Chris says simply, like it’s not an order but a fact. “You’re going to watch yourself come for me.”

“Yes,” Peter responds. Of course he is.

He blinks his eyes, trying to focus, seeing tear tracks down his cheeks. He looks so absolutely wasted and even without his eyes watering, he can’t quite keep everything in focus. He looks though, and he thinks he sees, but he’s not even sure that matters anymore. He’s concentrating on the task at hand and it’s making him aware and present in a way he usually isn’t. He likes to switch off, to float in that lovely place, to let himself simply drift through the warm, soft, submissive headspace. Chris takes him there perfectly. He likes him there. He praises him so beautifully for it. This is something else though. This is him inhabiting his submission in a way he thinks he hasn’t since the start. This is him owning it. It’s so powerful and humbling all at once.

When Chris makes him come so skilfully, Peter’s body tenses, going stiff and unyielding, even though Chris is still thrusting flawlessly into him. His mouth hangs open and his neck arches, a moment of pure and utter abandon. Every orgasm is that, but it feels so much deeper. He can’t concentrate on the details, can’t do much except feel, but he keeps his eyes on the mirror, on himself, and he thinks that maybe on some level he’s seeing it, internalising it. He hopes so. It’s a moment in which he’s both lost and found.

It’s not over when he comes though, it’s over when Chris says it’s over. Chris’ hand goes back to his hip, holding him firmly while he continues fucking into him, every deep thrust hitting him just right, making him keen high in his throat, so close to being too much. It’s a knife edge Peter is familiar with. It’s a knife edge he’s in love with.

Peter isn’t really paying attention to anything now, but he’s not sure he’s supposed to. He’s done his part. He just feels, waves of heat and pleasure driving through him over and over, not an orgasm, not close, but something so pleasant at being good for Chris. He loves being so thoroughly fucked out.

He moans through Chris’ orgasm, wanting to look up and see Chris’ face, watch the pleasure wash over it, but he keeps his eyes where they are, blurrily facing himself, watching as he sags with exhaustion, but he doesn’t give yet. He hasn’t been told that he can.

He whines as Chris pulls out of him, hips shifting back to seek him out, not wanting to be parted yet. He likes when Chris stays inside him. He likes falling asleep still being fucked. He likes when Chris gets hard still inside him and they start all over again.

“Okay, baby,” Chris says gently, rubbing circles into his lower back. “Relax, Cub.”

With a noise of appreciation, Peter folds himself gracelessly onto the rug, Chris moving with him, turning him into a little spoon. Peter has come on his stomach, come leaking out of his ass, and it’s all going to end up on the rug because he can tell neither of them is going to move for a while. That’s okay, clean-up will be one of his chores for tomorrow. They own a steam cleaner for a reason.

They lie there and Peter drifts, into sleep, into subspace, into that safe wonderful place in his head that Chris built for him. He feels so lucky to have it. The sweat dries on his skin, making him tacky and cool, but Chris is warm behind him, enveloped around him, so Peter’s not moving. No blanket in the world could feel better than this.

“Cub.”

The word rouses him, fingers in his hair, and Peter hums, shifting back against him.

“Tomorrow, I want you to do something for me.”

Peter nods. He’ll clean the rug.

“I want you to write down everything you saw in that mirror just now,” Chris says. Peter frowns, something uneasy squirming inside him. “I want you to write about every look and every reaction and what it all means to you. Can you do that for me?”

The squirmy feeling turns hot and he wriggles closer to Chris. “Yes.”

“Thank you,” Chris says earnestly. “Then when I get home you can kneel for me and read it to me.”

The thought should make Peter feels exposed, but he finds that he only wants. He can already imagine the soft look on Chris’ face, the pets and the praise he’ll receive. “Okay.”

“Then I’ll tell you what I saw,” Chris says. “What I always see.” His arm tightens around Peter’s waist, nuzzling at his neck. “It contains love. And adoration. Because I love you.” He places a kiss against his neck. “And I adore you.” He kisses him again.

“Love you too,” Peter agrees easily, all of his heart in the words, no matter how overused they are.

“Then I’m going to hang that mirror over the fireplace,” Chris says. “And you’re going to think of this every time you look at it.”

“Thank you,” Peter says, unquestioningly taking it as a gift. They don’t do humiliation. Everything comes out of love, even when they play hard.

Chris sighs, his body heavy against Peter’s. “I don’t feel like cooking. Shall we get takeout?”

“Yes please,” Peter responds. “I need pizza. And I need my blanket.”

Chris gives a good humoured little laugh, breath falling against Peter’s neck. “I’m sure we can arrange that.”

Neither of them moves though, content to extend the moment, to let it wind around them and settle into their bones before the real world calls them back with such mundane necessities as food and warmth. Wrapped up in Chris’ arms like this, Peter could almost believe he didn’t need them.


End file.
